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Chapter Text

---

The weight of his helmet felt heavier than usual. Xisuma sat in the dim glow of his base’s core, the gentle hum of redstone and brewing stands a familiar comfort. He replayed the event in his mind for the hundredth time: the sudden dizziness, the world tilting on its axis, the concerned shouts of his friends muffled as the void claimed his consciousness. He had fainted. Right in the middle of a server-wide meeting about the upcoming season's projects.

'It was just a faint,' he reasoned with himself, the thought a stubborn mantra. 'A momentary lapse. A result of three consecutive nights patching a critical chunk-loading error. It's not that serious.'

At least, that's what he desperately needed to believe.

So why had the atmosphere shifted so profoundly? The Hermits, his family of chaotic, brilliant builders and redstone engineers, had become... smothering. Their usual playful jabs were replaced with hushed, careful tones. Offers of help, which he usually welcomed, now felt like assertions of his incapability. They orbited him like anxious guardians around a precious, fragile artifact—a piece of fine glassware on the verge of shattering from a single misstep.

It made his skin crawl beneath his netherite armor. A part of him, a hot, coiling ember in his chest, burned with a quiet fury. He wasn't a fledgling just leaving the nest. He was a grown man, the Admin of this entire world. He had single-handedly wrangled the code of reality to keep their server stable. He could protect himself. So what if he got carried away debugging? So what if he prioritized a Hermit's call for help over a full night's rest? That was his duty. That was who he was.

So, why? The question was a maddening loop in his processor. Why did this have to happ—

“Oh, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma! Come out here!”

The familiar, chirping voice of Grian sliced through his spiraling thoughts. Xisuma took a steadying breath, the filtered air of his helmet hissing softly. Pasting on a practiced, easy-going smile, he stepped out from the iron-reinforced depths of his base into the midday sun.

Grian stood there, his red sweater a vibrant splash against the grassy landscape, his brightly feathered wings twitching with restless energy. He was waiting, a picture of impatience barely held in check.

"Hello, Grian. It's nice to see you here. Is there something you need?"

Grian’s eyes darted for a fraction of a second, a calculated pause. "Well, actually, yeah! Mumbo wants you to see his new redstone contraption! He says it's a real head-scratcher and needs the Admin's expert opinion."

Xisuma’s smile tightened imperceptibly beneath his visor. "I'm sorry, Grian, but could you tell him I'll come by later? I've... got a lot on my mind at the moment."

The cheer on Grian’s face melted away, replaced by a theatrical pout. "Aw, come on, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma! You have to come! Mumbo will be so sad if you don't. You don't want to make Mumbo sad, right?" The question was laced with a subtle, manipulative pressure.

Xisuma startled slightly at the sudden stubbornness. "No, of course not! I'll—" He cut himself off, his Admin instincts kicking in. He stared at Grian, who now wore a smug, victorious smile. The ember of fury glowed hotter. He sighed in defeat. "I'll go see him. If it makes him happy."

"That's great! He'll be thrilled!" In a flash, Grian darted forward and clamped a hand around Xisuma's armored forearm, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Let's go! I'll lead the way!" Grian began to pull, but Xisuma planted his boots firmly on the ground, forcefully removing his arm from Grian's grasp.

"X-Eye-Zoo-Ma? Is something wrong?" Grian's voice was light, but his eyes were sharp, analyzing.

Xisuma rubbed his arm where the grip had been. "I can walk on my own, Grian. You don't need to escort me like a prisoner."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the wind. Grian was the first to break it, his voice unnaturally bright. "Oh! Okay then! I won't hold your arm for today!" Xisuma felt a wave of relief, but it was short-lived. As he looked at Grian, he saw the briefest flicker of something dark—a tight, fake smile and clenched fists—before the cheerful mask snapped back into place. The sight sent a chill down his spine.

"Now that's settled! To Mumbo's!" Grian announced, his tone leaving no room for further argument.

---

After an awkward, silent flight, they landed on the sprawling terraces of Mumbo Jumbo's mega-base, a towering structure of modern architecture and exposed redstone. Grian stretched his wings dramatically. "Ugh, finally! Took us long enough! X-Eye-Zoo-Ma, wait up!"

Xisuma, who had already started walking toward the main entrance, stopped and turned. He opened his mouth to speak, but a new voice interrupted.

"Hey there, X! I'm glad you made it." Mumbo emerged, wiping redstone dust from his suit jacket. He walked over and clapped a familiar hand on Xisuma's shoulder. The gesture, once brotherly, now felt like a claim.

Xisuma forced a smile. "It's no trouble, Mumbo. Grian said you had something to show me."

"Ah, yes! The new redstone contraption!" Mumbo's mustache twitched with excitement.

"It's a TNT cannon!" Grian interjected, bouncing on his heels. "For pranking Scar and Bdubs!"

Mumbo and Grian shared a conspiratorial laugh. Xisuma could only muster a weak chuckle. "You two are a menace."

Grian placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Xisuma! I thought you were on our side!"

"Looks like you were mistaken, Grian," Xisuma replied, the banter feeling hollow.

Mumbo grinned. "Now, now, enough yapping. Let's go see the—"

"SHASHWAMMY!"

The trio turned to see Keralis, with his wide, unblinking eyes, waving enthusiastically. But he wasn't alone. Docm77 stood beside him, his cybernetic arm glinting in the sun, his expression grim.

"Keralis? Doc? What are you two doing here?" Xisuma asked, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.

Doc took a heavy step forward, his hoofed foot crunching on the gravel. "We're supposed to be the ones asking that question, X. What are you doing here?"

Xisuma hesitated. "Mumbo asked me to take a look at his redstone. It's a TNT cannon."

Doc's single organic eye narrowed, shifting its gaze to Mumbo. "That's not a good enough reason to be out of your base. You still need rest."

Mumbo looked genuinely offended. "I say it's a brilliant reason!"

Grian pouted. "It is! And we'll take care of him, Doc! We promise!"

"No," Doc's voice was final, a low rumble of authority. "X is coming back with us. Now."

"Doc, I'm fine," Xisuma insisted, his patience wearing thin. "It was one fainting spell. It's not that serious."

"We have different definitions of 'serious,'" Doc countered coolly. "The common causes are sleep deprivation, extreme stress, and dehydration. Sound familiar?"

The silence was damning. Xisuma had no rebuttal.

"Okay, you have a point. But I'm fine now," he argued, desperation creeping into his voice.

Doc sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion. "The answer is no, X. You're coming with us, whether you like it or not." In one fluid motion, he drew an ender pearl. Before Xisuma could protest, Doc's strong hand clamped around his arm again, and another around Keralis's. His final glance at Grian and Mumbo was a promise of unfinished business. "I'll deal with you two later." The world twisted into a nauseating purple vortex, and the trio vanished.

Back at Mumbo's base, Grian and Mumbo stood in the sudden quiet.

"Hey, Grian," Mumbo said, adjusting his tie. "Want to bet something goes horribly wrong with their plan?"

Grian's eyes sparkled with manic glee, his wings fluttering. "Absolutely. The winner gets to blow up the loser's latest build."

"It's a bet, then."

---

The disorienting lurch of teleportation ended at the edge of the forest bordering Xisuma's base. Doc never loosened his grip, practically dragging the Admin forward. Keralis trailed behind, wringing his hands.

"Let me go, Doc," Xisuma growled, trying to dig his heels into the soil.

Doc didn't even acknowledge him, his focus solely on the path ahead.

Annoyed, Xisuma looked back at his oldest friend. "Keralis! A little help here? Tell him this is ridiculous!"

Keralis gave him a pained look. "No can do, Shashwammy. If we let you go, you'll just run off again."

"I won't! What are you—Ah!" Xisuma yelped as Doc tightened his grip, the metal of his cybernetic fingers pressing painfully into the gaps of his armor.

"Don't lie to us, X," Doc said, finally stopping to level a glare at him. "We all know you'll bolt the second you get the chance. You've been avoiding us for days."

Keralis let out a frantic sound. "Doc, stop! You're hurting him!"

"I'll stop when he starts being cooperative. We're doing this for his own good."

Xisuma met Doc's glare with one of his own, the fury now an open flame. "For my own good? Elaborate. Please."

"You want the list? Fine." Doc's voice was cold and precise. "One: you're a workaholic who treats sleep as a suggestion. Two: you internalize all the server's stress until it breaks you. Three: you push away every single person who tries to help you carry the load. We're your friends, X, not your subordinates. Start acting like it."

The words, sharp and true, struck a nerve. Xisuma fell silent, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a hollow shame. After a long moment, he gave a single, curt nod.

Doc's expression softened marginally. "Good. Now, let's get you home." There was no response from the Admin. Doc hadn't expected one.

Keralis scurried up to Doc, his voice a worried whisper. "Doc... are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Trust me, Keralis. It's the only way."

As the imposing obsidian walls of Xisuma's base came into view, Keralis scratched his neck nervously. "Hey, Doc..."

"What is it now?" Doc sighed.

"It's just... isn't this a bit too easy? Shashwammy gave up very quickly. That's... not like him. Don't you think that's suspicious?"

Doc frowned, his processor whirring. "Now that you mention it, it is—"

It was then that Xisuma made his move. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled a splash potion of blindness from his inventory and smashed it at their feet. A thick, inky blackness enveloped Doc and Keralis.

"X!" Doc roared, his grip instinctively loosening as he swatted at the darkness.

It was all the opening Xisuma needed. He wrenched his arm free, deployed his elytra, and with a powerful leap and a blast from a rocket, he was airborne and gone before the potion's effect had even faded.

As the world cleared, Doc and Keralis stood alone.

"He's gone!" Keralis panicked, spinning in circles. "Doc, we have to find him!"

"Quiet!" Doc commanded, raising a hand. His face was a mask of cold anger. "We can't track him alone." A grim, determined smile spread across his face as he pulled out his communicator. "It's time to call in backup."

[Docm77] Code Red. X has escaped custody. All available Hermits, we are initiating a server-wide search. Report any sightings immediately.

The responses came in a rapid, worrying chorus.

[Iskall85] Again? Why does he do this? We're trying to help!
[Rendog] He's stubborn, man. That's our Admin.
[StressMonster101] Don't worry, love. We'll find him.
[ZombieCleo] I'll sharpen my sword. He won't get far.

Doc put his communicator away and began strapping on his netherite armor, the pieces clicking into place with grim finality. He looked at the terrified Keralis.

"With the whole server looking, he can't hide for long."

Keralis managed a weak, worried smile. "That's... good."

"Now," Doc said, his voice a low growl. "Let's go find our wayward Admin."

---

Xisuma flew until his rockets sputtered out, landing in a secluded, overgrown taiga biome far from the server's central hubs. He found a shallow cave behind a waterfall, the roar of water masking any sound. He slumped against the mossy wall, the adrenaline crash leaving him trembling.

"Finally... some peace," he whispered to the damp, dark space. He could wait here. They would get bored, see reason, and this suffocating protectiveness would fade. He was sure of it.

He sat in silence for a long time, the knot in his stomach tightening. An idea, a desperate, technical one, sparked in his mind. "Maybe... maybe it's not them. Maybe their behavior is a glitch. A corrupted variable in their code!"

With renewed purpose, he summoned his Admin panel. A shimmering, blue-hued interface of scrolling text and complex data trees materialized in the air before him. For hours, he scoured the code, line by line, searching for anomalies, misplaced commands, anything that could explain the Hermits' sudden shift. He checked Grian's pranking algorithms, Doc's protective protocols, Keralis's social interaction parameters.

He found nothing. Every line of code was pristine, perfectly optimized. It was all... them.

He closed the panel with a sharp gesture, the light vanishing and plunging the cave back into gloom. "What am I thinking?" he groaned, leaning his head back against the stone. "Of course it's not the code. It's... me."

The realization was a crushing weight. He was the variable. He was the problem.

He had to make them understand. He pulled out his communicator, his fingers hovering over the keys.

[XisumaVoid] > Hello everyone. I just want to assure you all, I am perfectly okay. There is no need to worry or search for me. I just need some time alone.

The responses were immediate and dismissive.

[Rendog] Dude, no you're not. Stop lying to us.
[XisumaVoid] I'm not lying, Ren. I am okay.
[Grian] > That's great! So, can you share your coordinates? Just so we know you're safe! :)
[XisumaVoid] No.
[Grian] Aww, why not? :(
[BdoubleO100] It's 'cause he wants it to be a game of hide and seek! Right, X?
[XisumaVoid] No, Bdubs. That's not it.
[FalseSymmetry] Don't worry, Bdubs. We'll find him soon.
[BdoubleO100] Thanks Falsie!

Xisuma sighed, the sound lost in the waterfall's roar. They weren't listening. They had decided what was best for him, and his own voice no longer mattered. Annoyed and restless, he stood, drawing his diamond pickaxe. The solid, methodical work of mining—the thunk, thunk, thunk against stone—was the only thing that could quiet the storm in his mind.

---

Days passed. The server was a powder keg of tension. Hermits crisscrossed the map, following false leads and dead ends. Keralis was a wreck, pacing the community area they were using as a base camp.

"You said this would be easy, Doc!" he cried, his eyes wide with exhaustion and fear.

"I said easier, not easy," Doc corrected from where he was calibrating his cybernetic arm. "Finding a seasoned Admin who doesn't want to be found is like tracking a phantom."

"But what if he's hurt? What if he's in a ravine, or surrounded by mobs, or—"

"Keralis," Doc interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "He's fine. He's Xisuma. He's probably living off baked potatoes in some hole in the ground, monitoring us all through the back-end." A grim smile touched his lips. "But he's not infallible. Pearl says she saw him."

Keralis froze. "Pearl? How?"

"He got sloppy. Didn't check his perimeter. She was gathering chorus fruit on the outer islands and spotted a figure in elytra landing in a specific taiga biome. She was too far to intervene, but she got a direction."

"Where?" Keralis demanded, hope flaring in his chest.

"A cave system. Behind a waterfall."

"A cave!?" Keralis's panic returned. "Is it secure? Is there enough light? What about creepers?!"

"Keralis. Breathe." Doc stood up. "I've already assembled a team. Ren, Cleo, Grian, Iskall, and Tango are moving in as we speak. The rest of us need to be ready here. We all need rest, especially X."

Keralis finally sat, deflating. "You're right, Doc... you're always right."

"I know," Doc said. He watched Keralis for a moment. "You should go work on your build. Distract yourself. I'll message you the moment we have him."

Keralis nodded, forcing a smile. "Okay. I will. Thank you, Doc." As he hurried off, Doc pulled out his communicator, his expression turning severe.

[Docm77] [Private Message to Grian] > Status update. Are you in position?
[Grian] [Private Message to Docm77] > Almost! Just a few hundred blocks out. Getting impatient, Doc? ;)
[Docm77] [Private Message to Grian] > Just get it done. Clean and fast.
[Grian] [Private Message to Docm77] > Don't worry. He won't slip away this time.

---

Deep in the taiga, the retrieval team moved with a quiet, predatory grace. They touched down silently, their elytra folding away.

"I see it," ZombieCleo whispered, pointing to the waterfall cascading down a rocky cliff face. "That's the one."

Ren cracked his knuckles, a low growl in his throat. "Finally. When we get him, I'm gonna—"

"We," Tango corrected, his eyes glowing with a faint, mischievous light.

Ren shot him a glare but nodded. "We are going to have a very long talk about the meaning of 'self-care'."

Iskall, ever the pragmatist, crept to the cave entrance and peered inside. He immediately pulled back, his face etched with shock. "He's here. I saw his name tag. He's deep inside. Let's move, and for the love of diamonds, be quiet."

Grian, practically vibrating with excitement, had to be physically held back by Iskall. "Once we're in, not a sound," Iskall warned, his gaze locking with Grian's.

"Sure, sure, quiet as a mouse," Grian chirped, his promise utterly unconvincing.

Cleo led the way, sword in hand, the others following in a tight, tense formation. The cave was damp and narrow, the only light coming from the occasional patch of glow lichen. They moved deeper, the sound of the waterfall fading, replaced by the drip of water and the scuttle of spiders.

Then, they saw him. Xisuma was standing before a wall of raw stone, his pickaxe in hand, frozen mid-swing. He had heard them. He turned slowly, his dark visor reflecting the five determined faces of his friends.

The Hermits fanned out, blocking the only exit.

Tango broke the silence, his voice a singsong of false cheer. "Oh, X! Look who finally decided to stop by!"

Iskall stepped forward, his expression stern. "You're in a world of trouble, X. Come with us. Don't make this difficult."

Xisuma looked from one face to another—Grian's triumphant smirk, Ren's predatory grin, Cleo's unwavering frown, Tango's gleeful menace, Iskall's disappointed resolve. The fight left him completely, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He managed a weak, conciliatory smile.

"Hello, friends. Thank you for... checking in. If you'll just let me grab my things, I'll be right with—"

THWIP! A crossbow bolt embedded itself in the stone wall mere inches from his helmet. Ren lowered the weapon, a fresh bolt already loaded.

"Oh no you don't," Ren rumbled, his voice a low growl. "You're coming with us. Now."

Xisuma flinched, the sound echoing sharply in the confined space. "I take it... negotiation is off the table?"

Grian flapped his wings, stirring the stale cave air. "Yup! You're all out of options, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma!"

Cleo took a step closer, her voice softer but no less firm. "There are five of us, X, and you're unarmed. You can't win this. Please, just come home."

Xisuma's shoulders slumped in utter defeat. He looked at the unyielding circle of his friends—his captors. The Admin of Hermitcraft, the master of this world, had been cornered in a hole in the ground by the very people he swore to protect. The irony was a bitter pill.

He let his pickaxe fall to the ground with a dull clatter.

"Fine."

Chapter Text

--

The word "Fine" was not a surrender of his spirit, but a tactical retreat of his body. Xisuma felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by a heavy, leaden exhaustion that seemed to seep into the very core of his code. He stood motionless as Cleo efficiently collected his pickaxe and Iskall moved to his side, not with aggression, but with a firm, unyielding presence that made it clear any further escape attempts were futile.

"Good choice," Iskall said, his voice losing its earlier sternness, now just tired. "Let's not make this harder than it has to be."

Grian, however, was practically buzzing. "See? Was that so hard?" He darted forward, but a sharp look from Cleo stopped him from touching the Admin. "We've got rockets for everyone. Doc's waiting."

The flight back was a silent, grim procession. Xisuma flew in the center of the group, flanked by Iskall and Ren, with Tango and Grian taking the lead and Cleo bringing up the rear. It was a prisoner escort, and the sheer absurdity of it, the Admin of the server being treated like a volatile commodity, tightened the knot of shame and anger in Xisuma's chest. He watched the familiar landscapes of the shopping district, the mega-bases, and the community farms pass beneath him. This was his world, his masterpiece of code and community. And now he was being forcibly returned to it.

They landed in the central plaza, a place usually filled with the sounds of bartering and laughter. Now, it was ominously quiet. Docm77 stood waiting, his arms crossed, a stark figure against the colorful builds. Keralis was there too, wringing his hands, his face a canvas of relief and fresh anxiety.

"X," Doc said, his voice a low, neutral tone. No triumph, no anger. Just a simple acknowledgment.

Keralis rushed forward, but stopped short, his hands fluttering nervously. "Shashwammy! You're back! You had us so worried! Are you hungry? Tired? Do you need a potion?"

"I'm fine, Keralis," Xisuma replied, the words automatic and hollow. He looked past them, at Doc. "What now, Doc? Am I under house arrest?"

Doc's single eye narrowed. "Call it what you want. You're going to your base. You're going to rest. And you're going to let people help you. This isn't a punishment, X. This is an intervention."

"The entire server hunting me down like a mob feels an awful lot like a punishment," Xisuma retorted, a spark of his defiance returning.

"Then maybe you should have stayed and talked to us instead of running!" The voice was StressMonster's. She stood at the entrance to her shop, her usual cheerful expression replaced by one of deep concern. "We're your friends, love. We're not the enemy."

One by one, other Hermits began to emerge from the surrounding buildings and teleport in. FalseSymmetry, her wings tucked neatly, watched with a critical, assessing gaze. Cubfan leaned against a lamppost, his expression unreadable. Impulse and Tango stood together, their usual joviality subdued. The weight of their collective gaze was immense. This wasn't just Doc's decree; it was a consensus.

Xisuma felt the walls of his helmet closing in. He was surrounded, outnumbered not by force, but by a unified, suffocating wave of concern.

"Alright," Doc said, breaking the tense silence. "Show's over. Everyone, back to your business. X, with me."

Doc didn't grab him this time. He simply turned and started walking toward Xisuma's base, the expectation of compliance hanging heavy in the air. After a moment's hesitation, Xisuma followed, the silent procession of Hermits watching him go.

---

The interior of his base, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Doc had stationed himself just inside the main entrance, a silent, cybernetic sentinel.

"For how long?" Xisuma asked, removing his helmet and placing it on a stand with a quiet clink. The face that looked back from the reflection in a nearby copper panel was pale and etched with fatigue.

"For as long as it takes," Doc replied, not unkindly. "Until you have a full set of health potions in your system. Until you've slept through a full night, two in a row. Until you can look me in the eye and tell me, honestly, that you're not one coding session away from collapsing again."

"And how will you enforce that? Will you watch me sleep, Doc?" Xisuma's voice was laced with a bitter sarcasm he rarely used.

"If I have to," Doc said, his gaze unwavering. "Yes."

The first day was a study in quiet torment. Hermits visited in a rotating schedule, each with a different tactic. Keralis brought soup and fussed over the lighting. Stress arrived with a stack of blankets and a playlist of "calming ocean sounds." Bdubs popped in to dramatically re-enact the time he stayed up for three days building a clock tower and the "profound philosophical lessons" he learned from crashing afterward. Their efforts were well-intentioned, but each visit was a reminder of his perceived fragility.

Xisuma played the part. He drank the potions. He ate the food. He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling while the "calming ocean sounds" played, his mind racing through server logs and error reports. The powerlessness was maddening.

It was on the second evening that the dynamic shifted. The visitor was not part of the scheduled rotation. A soft chime announced a player entering the base's perimeter, and a moment later, Joe Hills stepped into the main chamber, a book in his hand.

"Joe," Doc acknowledged from his post.

"Doc," Joe replied with a calm nod. He then turned to Xisuma, who was sitting at his enchanting table, listlessly rearranging lapis. "Administrator Xisuma. I come bearing not a potion nor a platitude, but a proposition."

Xisuma looked up, intrigued despite himself. "What kind of proposition, Joe?"

Joe held up the book. "This is a draft of the latest volume of 'Hermitcraft Histories.' Specifically, the chapter detailing the Great Mycelium Resistance. I find my account lacks a certain... administrative perspective. The burden of leadership in such a chaotic time. I was hoping you might provide some insight."

Doc shifted, a low whir coming from his arm. "Joe, he's supposed to be resting his mind, not reliving server-wide conflicts."

"On the contrary," Joe said, his tone gentle but firm. "A mind needs engagement as much as a body needs rest. Repressing one's thoughts is not the same as quieting them. I propose a trade, Xisuma. Your perspective on these events for... my silence on any other server matters you might feel the need to 'fix' while we talk."

It was a lifeline. A recognition that he was still the Admin, still a repository of knowledge and experience, not just a patient. Xisuma looked from Joe's earnest face to Doc's skeptical one.

"Alright, Joe," Xisuma said, a genuine, if small, smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "Let's talk history."

As Joe sat and opened his book, the atmosphere in the room changed. The oppressive, clinical concern was replaced by the warm, rambling cadence of Joe Hills' storytelling. They spoke for hours, not just about the mycelium war, but about the politics of the Civil War, the technical marvel of the Season 7 shopping district, the simple joy of the first Hermitcraft world. Joe listened, asked thoughtful questions, and wrote in his book. For the first time, Xisuma wasn't being treated like a broken thing, but like himself.

Doc watched the entire interaction, saying nothing. When Joe finally left, promising to return for more "research," the silence that remained was thoughtful, not stifling.

Later that night, as Xisuma lay in bed, he heard Doc's communicator chime softly. He couldn't hear the words, but he heard Doc's low, rumbling reply.

"He's stable. Joe's method... seems to be working. Stand down the watch for tonight. Let him breathe."

It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. They were starting to see him again, not just his collapse.

The next morning, it was FalseSymmetry who arrived, her PvP-honed gaze missing nothing. She didn't bring soup. She tossed him a set of practice swords.

"Your form is getting sloppy," she stated bluntly. "An hour of sparring. No powers, no potions. Just swordwork. Doc can be the referee."

Doc, to Xisuma's surprise, nodded in agreement. "Physical exertion is acceptable. As long as it's monitored."

The sparring session in a cleared-out area of his base was brutal and cathartic. False was relentless, her movements a blur of efficiency. Xisuma, rusty from days of enforced idleness, was pushed to his limit. But with every parry, every dodge, every clash of diamond swords, he felt the frustration and helplessness being beaten out of him. He was sweating, his muscles burned, and he was alive.

Afterwards, panting and leaning on his sword, False gave him a rare, approving smile. "Not completely hopeless, Admin. We'll do this again tomorrow."

The "treatment" was evolving. It was no longer about coddling him, but about challenging him in controlled, constructive ways. Impulse and Tango came by with a complex but non-essential redstone problem, "just to pick your brain." Mumbo, looking chastened, visited with blueprints for a new, safer TNT cannon, genuinely asking for feedback. Grian even showed up, uncharacteristically quiet, and simply helped reorganize a chest monster without a single prank.

The message was clear: We need you. Not just your code, but you.

The breakthrough came on the fifth day. Xisuma was working through a particularly tricky bit of redstone logic with Tango when a critical alert flashed across his Admin panel, which he had open on a secondary monitor. A chunk corruption error in the Deep End, the server's oceanic monument grinding area. It was causing severe lag and risked wiping out hours of Hermit progress.

His old instincts kicked in immediately. "I have to go," he said, standing up so quickly his chair scraped back.

Tango looked at the screen and paled. "Yikes. That's a bad one."

Doc, who had been observing from across the room, stepped forward. "X—"

"No, Doc," Xisuma said, his voice firm but calm. He met Doc's gaze squarely. "This isn't me being a workaholic. This is a genuine server emergency. If I don't patch this now, it could cascade and take down the entire Nether hub. You know I'm the only one who can fix it."

The room was silent. Doc studied him—the determined set of his jaw, the clear focus in his eyes, the complete lack of the frantic, exhausted energy that had preceded his collapse.

"Alright," Doc said finally. "But you're not going alone. Tango, you go with him. You're a competent coder. You can assist. I'll alert the Hermits in the area to steer clear. You have two hours. If you're not back, or if your vitals dip, I'm coming to get you myself. Understood?"

It was a compromise. It was trust.

"Understood," Xisuma said, a real, full smile spreading across his face for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "Thank you, Doc."

The fix was tense and required all of Xisuma's concentration, but with Tango acting as a capable assistant, running diagnostics and fetching resources, they stabilized the corruption in just over an hour. When they returned, covered in prismarine dust but triumphant, a small group of Hermits was waiting, including Doc, Keralis, and a visibly relieved Mumbo.

"Well?" Doc asked.

"Server's stable," Xisuma reported, pulling off his helmet. He was tired, but it was the good, honest tiredness of a job well done, not the soul-crushing exhaustion of before. "The lag should be gone."

A collective sigh of relief went through the group.

Keralis beamed. "I knew you could do it, Shashwammy!"

Doc walked over and placed a hand on Xisuma's shoulder. This time, the gesture felt like it used to—a sign of camaraderie, of respect. "Good work, X. Now, I believe you have some soup to finish."

As the Hermits dispersed, chatting amiably, Xisuma looked around at his friends. The overprotectiveness wasn't gone, but it had morphed. It was no longer about treating him like glass, but about being a safety net, allowing him to fly high but ensuring he wouldn't fall alone. They had forced him to stop, and in doing so, had reminded him what he was fighting for. It wasn't just about keeping the code clean. It was about preserving this—the chaos, the care, the unbreakable, sometimes infuriating, bond of Hermitcraft.

He wasn't just the Admin. He was a Hermit. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

---

The "soup mandate," as Xisuma had privately dubbed it, continued, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. The Hermits' vigilance remained, but it was now tempered with a renewed respect. They had seen him handle a crisis, and the brittle, fragile image they had of him had been replaced with the sturdier, more familiar one of their capable, if occasionally overzealous, Admin. The watchful eyes were still there, but they no longer felt like the bars of a cage.

It was in this new, more balanced environment that Etho slipped in. He didn't announce his arrival with a chime or a shout. One evening, as Xisuma was cross-referencing the server's mob-spawning algorithms with a bowl of Keralis's mushroom stew going cold beside him, he simply looked up and Etho was there, leaning against the doorframe of his workshop, his masked face as unreadable as ever.

"Etho," Xisuma said, not startled, but pleasantly surprised. Etho had been notably absent from the parade of caregivers, which had somehow felt more respectful than the constant attention.

"X," Etho replied, his voice a quiet rasp. He pushed off the doorframe and ambled in, his gaze sweeping over the organized chaos of redstone components and open code interfaces. "Heard you've been through the wringer."

"You could say that," Xisuma said with a wry smile, gesturing to the half-finished stew. "I'm currently being fattened up like a prize hog for the fair."

A faint crinkle at the corners of Etho's eyes suggested a smile beneath the mask. "Looks like it. But you know, a hog that's too cooped up gets ornery. The meat gets tough."

Xisuma blinked, then let out a genuine laugh. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged the absurdity of the situation with him, rather than just preaching its necessity. "Are you comparing me to a poorly raised farm animal, Etho?"

"Just making an observation," Etho said, his tone light. He stopped beside Xisuma's desk, picking up a stray comparator and turning it over in his gloved hands. "Doc means well. They all do. But sometimes the best way to heal isn't to sit still." He placed the comparator down with a soft click. "You look like you could use some real rest. The kind you get from being busy with something that doesn't matter."

Xisuma leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

"My base," Etho said simply. "The monolith. I'm working on the interior redstone for the storage system. It's... fussy. Could use a second pair of eyes. Nothing critical. Just a puzzle." He paused, letting the offer hang in the air. "No potions. No soup. Just some dust, a few sticky pistons, and a problem that needs solving. If you're interested."

It was a masterstroke. It was an invitation to work, to use his mind, but on a project that was purely for fun, with zero server-wide consequences. It was a challenge, but a low-stakes one. It was, Xisuma realized, exactly what he needed.

Doc, when consulted, had been skeptical. But after a long look at Xisuma's hopeful expression and Etho's calm, unwavering stance, he'd relented with a grunt. "Fine. But I'm setting a waypoint. Four hours, max. And I'm checking in."

The flight to Etho's massive, imposing monolith was a breath of fresh air. The wind whipping past his helmet felt like freedom. Inside, the cavernous space was a stark contrast to his own cozy base—all dark, polished deepslate and echoing halls. Etho didn't lead him to a bed or a potion stand. He led him to a sprawling, incomplete redstone contraption, a beautiful, complex mess of dust, repeaters, and hoppers.

"The logic's sound on paper," Etho murmured, scratching the back of his head. "But the item sorting is getting cross-wired. Every time I try to filter out rotten flesh, it jams the cobblestone line. It's... annoying."

Xisuma felt a familiar, pleasant click in his mind. This was a language he understood. He knelt, tracing the redstone lines with his eyes. "The pulse is too long. You're overloading the hopper clock here. See?" He pointed. "If you add a repeater set to two ticks right there, it should create the separation you need."

Etho leaned in, his head tilted. "Huh. You might be right."

For the next three hours, they worked in comfortable silence, punctuated by the soft click-clack of redstone components and short, technical exchanges. There was no pressure, no looming server crash, no life-or-death consequence for a miswired torch. It was just two engineers solving a puzzle. Xisuma's hands, which had felt clumsy and useless for days, moved with their old precision. The mental fog that had clung to him since his collapse began to lift, burned away by the clean, logical fire of a well-defined problem.

Etho didn't coddle him. He didn't offer constant praise or watch his every move with hawk-like concern. He simply worked alongside him, treating him as an equal. It was the most normal interaction Xisuma had experienced in over a week, and it was more healing than any potion.

During a break, sitting on a stack of smooth basalt blocks and sharing a bucket of mushrooms Etho had produced from a shulker box, Etho finally broke the comfortable silence.

"They were scared, you know," he said, his voice quiet in the vast space.

Xisuma looked at him, the mushroom halfway to his mouth. "Who?"

"Everyone." Etho gestured vaguely with his own mushroom. "Seeing you go down like that. It's one thing when it's Grian falling off a build for the hundredth time, or Ren getting blown up by his own cannon. That's... Hermitcraft. But you? You're the constant. You're the bedrock. When the bedrock cracks, it shakes everyone."

The simple, stark truth of it landed heavily on Xisuma. He had been so focused on his own feelings of emasculation and frustration that he hadn't fully considered theirs. He saw it as them treating him like a child, but Etho was framing it as them being terrified of losing their foundation.

"I... I didn't think of it that way," Xisuma admitted softly.

"Course you didn't," Etho said, not unkindly. "You're too busy being the bedrock to notice when it's under strain." He took a bite of his mushroom. "Doc's methods are blunt. Keralis frets. Grian tries to distract. But it all comes from the same place. We need you, X. Not just your code. You."

It was the same message Joe had hinted at, but delivered with Etho's characteristic, unvarnished clarity. It didn't feel smothering this time. It felt like a fact. A responsibility, yes, but also a connection.

When Doc's four-hour timer went off, signaled by a ping on their communicators, Xisuma felt a pang of genuine disappointment. The storage system wasn't finished, but the core issue was resolved, and they had a clear path forward.

"Thanks, Etho," Xisuma said as they prepared to leave. "This... this helped more than you know."

Etho just gave a short nod, his eyes crinkling again. "Anytime. A tough hog needs to root around in the dirt sometimes. Keeps 'em happy." He tossed a small, smooth stone to Xisuma. "A souvenir. From the monolith. To remember that some problems are just about cobblestone and rotten flesh. Not the fate of the world."

Xisuma caught the stone, a simple, weighty thing. It was the most Etho-like gift imaginable—meaningful, understated, and a little bit odd. He pocketed it with a smile.

The return to his base felt different. The watchful presence of the other Hermits no longer felt like a siege. When he walked in, Doc gave him a long, appraising look.

"You look... better," Doc conceded. "Less like you're about to glitch out of existence."

"I feel better," Xisuma said, and for the first time, it was the complete truth. The furious, caged animal inside him had been calmed. The shame had been acknowledged and was beginning to dissipate. "Etho's... surprisingly good at this."

Doc let out a short, sharp laugh. "He's good at everything. It's annoying." His expression softened. "The 'mandatory rest' protocol is still in effect, but... we can renegotiate the terms. You've proven you can handle a measured amount of stress without crumbling."

It wasn't total freedom, but it was progress. It was a partnership. As Xisuma lay down that night, the smooth stone from Etho's monolith sitting on his bedside table, he didn't feel the oppressive weight of their concern. Instead, he felt the sturdy, interconnected net of their care. They were his Hermits. And he, for all his Admin powers, was theirs. It was a balance, fragile and constantly shifting, like redstone dust in the wind, but it was the most stable and precious thing in the world.

---

The smooth stone from Etho’s monolith sat on Xisuma’s bedside table, a tangible promise of a return to normalcy. The "mandatory rest" protocol had been relaxed. Doc no longer stood guard at the door, and the constant stream of soup-bearing Hermits had slowed to a trickle. Xisuma was even allowed to handle minor server alerts himself, his communicator chirping with manageable issues, a stray chunk error near the Perimeter, a minor villager pathing bug in the shopping district. It felt good. It felt like he was finally, carefully, being trusted again.

But trust, once fractured, is a delicate thing to rebuild. And the Hermits, for all their love, were walking a tightrope between care and control.

The shift began subtly. It was Grian who started it, though he would never see it that way.

"X-Eye-Zoo-Ma!" Grian's voice was a familiar, cheerful singsong as he fluttered into the base. "I've had the most brilliant idea! Since you're still on 'light duties,' we could build a little relaxation area on the roof of your base! A nice garden, some comfy chairs. A place you can be outside without... you know, overdoing it."

Xisuma looked up from his code interface, forcing a polite smile. "That's a very kind thought, Grian, but my base's infrastructure isn't really designed for—"

"Oh, don't you worry about a thing!" Grian interrupted, his wings fluttering with excitement. "Mumbo and I have already drawn up the plans! We'll handle all the building. You just have to approve the location." He unfurled a schematic, revealing an elaborate, multi-tiered garden complete with a waterfall and a custom-made sun-lounger. It was beautiful. It was also a gilded cage, an open-air version of the prison he was just escaping.

Before Xisuma could formulate a gentle refusal, Mumbo popped his head in, redstone dust smudging his suit jacket. "Grian's right, X! It'll be good for you! A bit of fresh air, a controlled environment. We can even wire it up with a beacon for regeneration. Doc already approved the concept!"

Doc already approved. The words landed with a quiet, final thud. The decision had been made for him. The collaboration he'd felt with Doc was, it seemed, conditional.

"Right," Xisuma said, his voice tight. "Well, if Doc approved..."

The construction began the next day. The constant sound of blocks being placed and broken above his head was a grating reminder that his sanctuary was no longer entirely his own. He tried to retreat into his work, focusing on a complex bit of code for the upcoming server-wide game night.

That's when the second lock clicked into place.

A soft ping came from his admin panel. A new access restriction. He could no longer directly manipulate the core server code outside of pre-approved, non-critical hours. The restriction was filed under "Health and Wellness Protocols." The author of the protocol was a combined signature: Docm77, ZombieCleo, and FalseSymmetry.

A cold dread seeped into him. They hadn't just built a garden on his roof; they had built a firewall around his purpose.

He stood up, his hands trembling with a mixture of hurt and fury. He needed to talk to Doc. Now. He strode towards the entrance, only to find his path blocked by a familiar, broad-shouldered figure.

"Going somewhere, X?" FalseSymmetry asked, her tone deceptively light. She was in full netherite armor, her sword sheathed but her presence an unmistakable barrier.

"I need to speak with Doc," Xisuma said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Doc's busy," False replied, her gaze unwavering. "He's dealing with a creeper incident over at the Barge. He asked me to make sure you didn't overexert yourself. You know, after all the 'redstone stress' with Etho yesterday."

"The 'redstone stress' was the most normal I've felt in weeks!" The words burst out of him, sharp and desperate.

False's expression softened, but it was the pitying softness that made his skin crawl. "We know it feels that way, X. But you have to understand, we can see the bigger picture. You can't. You're too close to it. We're just... managing your recovery."

Managing. The word was a cold splash of water. He wasn't a person recovering; he was a server asset being managed.

The final, horrifying escalation came that evening. Exhausted, defeated, and feeling more trapped than ever, Xisuma retreated to his bedroom. He needed the simple, mindless comfort of sleep. He lay down, the sounds of Grian and Mumbo's "relaxation garden" finally silent above him.

As he drifted off, a faint, almost imperceptible sound reached his ears. A soft, rhythmic click-clack. It was a sound he knew intimately. It was the sound of an observer.

His eyes snapped open. He sat up slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scanned the dark room. There, cleverly integrated into the redstone piping that fed into his brewing stand, was a small, black obsidian face. An observer, wired to a redstone lamp hidden behind a painting. It was monitoring his bed.

They weren't just managing his work. They were monitoring his sleep.

A wave of nauseating violation washed over him. This was no longer care. This was surveillance. This was paranoia dressed up as compassion.

He didn't scream. He didn't break the observer. He just sat there in the oppressive silence, the truth crashing down on him. The Hermits truly believed they were saving him. But in their terrified, overzealous attempt to keep their bedrock from cracking, they were slowly, methodically, burying him alive. The love was real, but its manifestation had become a waking nightmare. He was their Admin, their friend, their family. And he had never felt more alone, or more terrified of the people he called home.